Free The Fourth Durango by Ross Thomas, Sarah Paretsky Page A

everyone was drinking could have had something to do with it.
    “When I was in jail,” Adair had said, and went on to describe his informal, admittedly unscientific sampling of the inmates’ political preferences. He confessed he was somewhat surprised to find an overwhelming majority rigidly conservative and almost morbidly patriotic.
    Sid Fork said he wasn’t surprised. “If you’d’ve asked them to come up with an ideal ticket for either party, they’d’ve said John Wayne for President and Clint Eastwood for Vice President. And if you’d’ve mentioned that Wayne was dead, they’d’ve said that’s all you know because of what they’d heard from a guy who knows a cousin of Wayne’s bodyguard. And this guy who knows the bodyguard’s cousin swore on a stack of Bibles that the Duke’s holed up in Rio Lobo, not dead at all, but just waiting for the right moment. And if you’d’ve asked them where the hell Rio Lobo is, they’d’ve said exactly twenty-nine point four miles west of Fargo.”
    His analysis delivered, the chief took a long drink of his whiskey and water, set the glass down, turned to the grill, gave one of the steaks an almost vicious stab with a fork, flipped it over and turned back to Adair.
    “What’d you really think of those assholes they had you locked up with?”
    “I sometimes found their thought processes interesting and oddly entertaining. But then I’m partial to the odd.”
    “Most of ’em stupid?”
    “None too bright anyway.”
    “Any of ’em smart—maybe even brilliant?”
    “A few.”
    “How about charming? You run into any charming assholes?”
    “An even rarer bird.”
    Fork seemed prepared to continue the colloquy but changed his mind when B. D. Huckins asked whether the steaks were ready yet.
    “If everyone likes ’em rare, they are,” Fork said and looked at Kelly Vines, as if daring him to ask for well done. But Vines said he liked his steak rare and the ex-Chief Justice said he never ate his any other way.
     
    They ate at the redwood trestle table on the patio, not talking much except to compliment Fork on the steaks, the Caesar salad, his scratch biscuits and the baked Idaho potatoes. When Jack Adair, a master of small talk, asked whether the potatoes had been baked in a real oven or in a microwave, Fork said a real oven because B. D. wouldn’t have a microwave in the house. He said she still thought they caused cancer although he’d bought one for his own house because who the hell wants to wait sixty minutes for a potato to bake when a microwave’ll do it in ten?
    Conversation died then and nobody, not even Adair, could think of anything pertinent to say. Just before the silence grew uncomfortable, B. D. Huckins rose and asked whether everyone wanted coffee. Everyone did, so she went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a tray that held a Thermos carafe, four tan mugs, cream and sugar. As she poured she announced without apology that there was no dessert, although if they’d like something sweet, she could offer Benedictine and brandy. No one wanted any.
    Mayor Huckins sat back down at the trestle table, had a sip of her coffee and smiled politely at Kelly Vines. “I believe you ran into my sister, Dixie.”
    Vines tried, with fair success, to conceal shock behind mild surprise. “I don’t think she said her name was Huckins.”
    “Well, she wouldn’t, of course, since her name is Mansur. Dixie Mansur. She married an Iranian. One of the rich ones, thank God.”
    Vines nodded, as if approving of Dixie’s wise choice and good fortune. “There’s not a lot of family resemblance.”
    “We had different fathers. Mine was Huckins; hers was Venable.”
    “I assume Dixie turned in a report.”
    “She gave you an A-plus. If she hadn’t, we wouldn’t be talking.”
    Sid Fork rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward Vines, his expression perhaps a trifle too friendly. “Soldier Sloan claims you’re okay, too,” he said